You may not need to know this

I thought I was all done fixing fonts and colors and layout stuff, but then a kind person told me how to add pictures.  That was many hours ago.  I'm almost satisfied now, but although I love this rainbow-and-tarp picture very much, of course I really wanted the Z-piggybacking-Fontenot shot to be my header forever.  I just couldn't get the blog title any color that would actually show up well, though.  It kept disappearing against Little Babe Ruth's hat or the lights.  I guess it wasn't meant to be.

Something else happened today, right?  Oh, yes - SWEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP.

Little Lord Fontenot

All my reasons for starting this blog, all my reasons for loving the Cubs, all my reasons for believing in the basic goodness of people and God and all that kind of stuff are expressed in the following image:

Yeah.  Oh, yeah.  (Seen in several places, but I think originally from here.)

"Who is this guy? What the heck is going on?"

As you may have noticed from my previous post, I'm back and mostly recovered from the wedding; my college classmates and I all disgraced ourselves pretty thoroughly.  I was welcomed home with some excellent Cubs victories yesterday and Sunday.  

It seems, though, that I missed an amazing moment before the game.  I've been informed that Mike Fontenot and Z have developed a new little routine in which Z pretends to hammer Fontenot into the ground like a spike.  As they were delighting everyone with this yesterday, Fontenot took it a step further and leapt onto Z's back to get a piggyback ride.  Of course I was overjoyed to hear this, but very sad to have missed actually seeing it.

Sensing my distress, my friend Jessie kindly took pity on me and provided me with this article from last year's Tribune.  Here's the most relevant part, with the highlights, well, highlighted:

Fontenot arrived too late to get an All-Star invite, though no second baseman in the league is playing as well as he is right now.

Fontenot hiked his average to .408 with a 3-for-4 afternoon and barely missed becoming the first player this season to reach Sheffield Avenue with his 415-foot, fourth-inning home run off Jason Hirsh.

"I didn't know short men could hit the ball like that," Zambrano said. "He hit the ball like a man, you know?"

Fontenot laughed at Zambrano's comment. Do people underestimate him because of his size?

"I don't know," Fontenot said. "Nobody ever comes up to me and says, 'You can't do this or that.' "

Whenever the 6-foot-5-inch Zambrano high-fives the generously listed 5-8 Fontenot, he puts his hand as high as possible to make Fontenot jump up, like a dog trying to catch a Frisbee.

"That's one of his things," Fontenot said. "I kind of like it. I just slap him on the forearm."

If Fontenot's forearm slap ever becomes as ubiquitous as the fist-bump, you will know it really is the Cubs' year.

"Hats off to Mike Fontenot," DeRosa said. "What he's doing, to come up here and hit .400, is unbelievable. It's not even fathomable, to be honest …

"Every third-base coach has asked me, 'Who is this guy? What the heck is going on?' He's in a zone right now, but when you look at his numbers, he has hit all his life."

I don't really have much to add beyond that.  "Generously listed."  I think that may actually be my favorite part.  Can he really be shorter than 5'8?  I believe the reporter is trying to imply that Fontenot is actually about five feet tall. 

In other news, I've got about three weeks left until I start Jesus School, and OH MAN, THE EXCITEMENT.  

This is really too much.

OH NO LOOK AT THIS RIGHT NOW

Michael Fontenot, who are you?  How are you possible?  Where did you come from?  Are we for-real married in that land?  Because if so, I will find a way to live there forever.  

We love you, Theodore

Technically I'm still taking a baseball break, but thank you, Lord, for Reed Johnson.  As a few different sources have informed me, while Mighty Mike congratulated Reed after his grand slam last night, our announcers made up a little conversation they might be having.  Len suggested that Mike was saying, "That's right, us little guys can hit them out of the park too!"  I like to imagine Fontenot saying it in a squeaky, indignant voice.  (To be fair, I have no idea what he sounds like; I don't think I've ever heard him interviewed.  I'm sure he has a very manly voice.  One would hope.)

I'll be out of town for a friend's wedding this weekend; enjoy the not-too-unpleasant-for-July weather if you're in Chicago, and go Cubs.

Also

As you may imagine, everything I just witnessed made my baseball life feel even more like a Philip Larkin poem.  Even with the ongoing Black Despair, though, I was marginally cheered up by Mark DeRosa's interview with Ryan Dempster in his blog.  If I were in a better mood, it would probably have made my whole week, especially the card game part.  

SIGH

I've entered a period of melancholy over the Cubs.  I'm acting fitful, nervous, and generally unpleasant to be around.  More than usually superstitious, also; I actually believe that my watching the games is negatively affecting their performance.  From time to time I'll come out of my room and dart through the living room, glancing at the score without turning my head.  It's deeply absurd.  

Secretly, I believe that staying on top of our division, let alone anything beyond that, will require a genuine miracle.  I imagine something very Biblical; possibly Jesus will descend onto the field and bat for us.  I keep reminding myself of John Updike's matter-of-fact line from his essay Hub Fans Bid Kid Adieu: "All baseball fans believe in miracles.  The question is, how many do you believe in?"  I just tore a piece of paper out of my notebook, wrote this down, and put it in my wallet, because I want to remember why I love baseball.  

Of course, on my better days, it also says a lot to me about the non-baseball parts of life.  (Also, I was just reminded that even if we don't get Jesus on the field or some other variation on what we're all hoping for, this season has already had lots of gorgeous baseball and quite a few of those moments that make you glad to be a fan despite everything.  I'm thinking especially of our first game with the Cardinals, after which I said to my parents, "Right now, I don't care what happens in the rest of the season.  Seeing that was enough," and meant it completely.  I was probably delirious.)  Unfortunately, the angry, screeching monkey that has currently replaced my normal personality doesn't think much of any of this.  Possibly a baseball break is in order.  

To end on a lighter note, I should add that the only person exempt from this angst is Mike Fontenot, who makes me as happy as ever.  As I told my friend J. last night, he reminds me of a character from a children's book.  Or in her more awesome words, "He's like the Teeny Little Super Guy who lives in a juice glass...but this one hits home runs!"  So I'm going to try to calm down, concentrate on my imaginary marriage to Little Mike, and hope that all will be well.

Cubs dream update #2

This morning I woke up from a dream involving Geovany Soto, just as I requested.  But now I have a new question: why can I not remember a single detail about this dream, other than the fact of his presence, and maybe something about us...playing soccer? I think? while at the same time, I remember with much greater clarity the dream where I was married to Mike Fontenot?

Now, as I said before, I love Mike Fontenot more than life itself, but just so we're all on the same page here: this is Geo.  This is Mighty Mike.  I really do not need the vivid memory of his wavy blond hair in my marital bed.  (I'm sure my div school professors will be reading this entry someday.  Hi!)

My summer in baseball

Here are the games I've gone to, or will be going to if all goes according to plan, this summer:

1.) White Sox/Rockies on Father's Day.  I mostly went to see the Rockies, who I will probably always have massive affection for even when they play poorly.  They won.  I cheered for them, but only inside my head, because the fans on either side looked very hostile and I didn't want anyone to hit me.  I also didn't wear any of the nine million items of Rockies gear I somehow acquired during my time in Denver, but I'll try to be braver next time.

2.) A minor-league game the last weekend in August (I think): the Schaumburg Flyers vs. a team I believe is called the Gary South Side Railcats, my new favorite team name.  I love minor-league games so much, you guys.  If anyone in the Chicago area wants to go to another one, let me know.  And on an entirely different level of excitement:

3.) Cubs/Brewers, September 18th.  Okay, so my friend and I couldn't get tickets next to each other, but they're in the same general area.  Generally.  Now all we have to do is hope that "Reverend Zambrano," as my game companion called him recently, will be pitching.  But I'd be happy with Teddy Roosevelt Lilly too.  Well, frankly, I'd be happy even if it was Ryne Sandburg's minor-league team with the weird, creepy mascots - I just can't wait to be back at Wrigley.

"I was a little bit shaking"

Well, I would say a good time was had by all last night.  It was really nice to see everybody relatively relaxed and having fun, except for Terry Francona, who I thought might actually start ripping his hair out by the end of the game while Clint Hurdle continued blowing bubbles with his gum.  The dugout kind of looked like a clown car, with about a hundred players in there, and the cheerful inter-team conversations were fun to watch, whatever they may have been about.

I spent a lot of the game praying loudly that Carlos Marmol wouldn't pitch badly, because I feel like that would have destroyed his confidence forever.  I feel like so much is psychological with him; he looks so nervous a lot of the time.  Anyway, I was relieved that he did just fine, and that Z and Dempster put in a good showing.  Z casually lobbing that pitch over Manny Ramirez's head cracked me up, and apparently Rami as well.  Geo and Fukudome didn't hit anything but looked good behind the plate and out in the field, respectively.

The title of this post is a quote from Z about last night; in the same article, Geo says, "On a scale of one to 10, I'd rate it a 50.  It was awesome.  A better stage, you couldn't have."  I guess I can go along with him on that.

O to grace how great a debtor

Last night I was looking through one of Phyllis Tickle's prayer books, and the reading for vespers was the text of the hymn "Come Thou Fount of Every Blessing," which is probably my second-favorite hymn (second only to "St. Patrick's Breastplate") and makes me cry every time I sing it, especially "Prone to wander, Lord, I feel it; prone to leave the God I love."  I actually forgot the tune to this for a moment, which was a good reminder that I need to get back to church very soon.  I had this whole thing about not wanting to go to the Episcopal church in my parents' suburb because I don't want to see anyone I knew in high school, which was a pretty hideous time for me, but I think I need to get over that because I miss the liturgy so desperately, not to mention communion.

Anyway, when I first heard this hymn, I was intrigued by the word "Ebenezer" in the second verse.  I wouldn't have known what this meant if it weren't for Kathleen Norris' fabulous book Amazing Grace, in which she explains that it's a reference to a verse in I Samuel: "Then Samuel took a stone, and set it between Mizpeh and Shen, and called the name of it Ebenezer, saying, Hitherto hath the Lord helped us."

Reading this verse reminded me of something Ruby, one of my best friends, said to me last year.  We were talking about Connie Willis, one of our mutual favorite authors, and her book Passage, which Ruby had read and I had not.  She said (warning: this may be spoilery for this novel) that it had seemed very nihilistic and sort of aggressively depressing all throughout, to the point where it was grating on her nerves.  Then all of a sudden, on the last page, this really overtly Christian symbol was introduced, which changed your perspective on the rest of the story - I won't tell you what it was, so as not to spoil anything more than I have to, but I laughed when I heard it.  Then my friend said in this aggrieved tone, "I didn't expect Jesus to make an appearance."

This cracked me up at the time, but I've been thinking about it a lot lately.  I think what my friend said and what this verse from I Samuel is saying may have a lot in common.  In both of them, there's this idea of marking the moments when you realize that some force greater than you has in fact put in an appearance in your life and in the world, has maybe even been there all along without your noticing it; that this thing my friend identified as Jesus has helped you, and will help you.  Sometimes I think of it as Jesus too, sometimes as God, or the Holy Spirit, or just the power of grace, whatever that is.  In any case, after clarifying "Ebenezer," Kathleen Norris says this:

There is a powerful moment in any religious conversion, perhaps to any faith, in which a person realizes that all of the mentors, and all that they have said, all of the time spent in reading scripture, or engaged in what felt like stupid, boring, or plain hopeless prayer, has been of help after all.  It is nothing you have done, but all of it is one event, God's being there, and being of help.  The enemies you were facing, whatever obstacles seemed amassed against you, even your own confusion, have simply vanished.  And you are certain that it is God who has brought you to this moment, which may even feel like victory.

Small children + baseball gear = always adorable.

Some of my favorite recent baseball things:

1.) Pictures of Ryan Dempster and Kosuke Fukudome with their small children at the Home Run Derby.  

2.) "Look, Mom!  The whole gang is going to the All-Star Game!"

A major YAY for our seven Cubs All-Stars, and I hope everybody enjoys the game tomorrow.  I'm pretty sure I will.

Good news

This just in: I'll be getting a way more significant scholarship to Jesus School than I thought, bless them.   This is such a huge relief.

Also: I noticed the phrase "Cubsessed" in comments on Cubby Blue today and will be working it into 100% of my conversations from now on.  That is all.

I <3 folk singers

I'm off to the Old Town School of Folk Music to watch some potentially ridiculous performances, but in the meantime - well, I've been trying to embed the video of Mark DeRosa literally leaping into Ryan Theriot's arms after scoring the game-winning run yesterday, but it's eluding me.  Anyway, it's on the front page of cubs.com and will hopefully be here when I get home later, because it is full of delight.

Probably not a good sign

The state of my life: when thunderstorms woke me up this morning, I was dreaming about Mike Fontenot.  He giving some kind of press conference, talking, I would assume, about his grown-man strength, but sadly I can't really remember that part.  I'm almost sure we were married in this dream.  Perhaps I should stop thinking about him so much, but what can you do, really?

Also: subconscious, next time could I be married to perhaps Geo Soto?  Of course I love and adore Mighty Mike, but not THAT way.

More high-fiving

Let's not talk too much about today's game, which was just weird.  Instead, let's enjoy the greatest picture I've seen yet of Mike Fontenot: he really is Mighty Mike!  

According to the wisdom of Ryan "The Riot" Theriot, quoted in a recent MLB news article, "[Fontenot]'s always been able to hit the ball out of the park.  It might have something to do with his arms being shorter than anybody else's."  I guess that pretty much sums it up.

The church I just left, part 1

Although I'm a born-and-bred Chicagoan, I've lived in Denver for the past two years, the first time I've ever lived in a different state.  I just came home last month and am currently hanging out at my parents' house until I start Jesus School in August, at which time I'll be living in their grad-student housing.

For the most part, I was glad to leave Denver.  I'm one of those Chicagoans that everyone hates, the ones who secretly don't understand why anyone would want to live anywhere but Chicago, ever.  I complained a lot about things that didn't work (I swear some streets never even got plowed after the huge blizzard in 2006) or were difficult to find (Italian beef, decent pizza, and others, mainly food-related).

Of course there were things I loved about Denver (Tattered Cover, the greatest bookstore ever, for example.  Then there's the easily-accessible natural beauty, but I'm not much of a nature person.  I love gardens, and that's about my limit).  But the main thing, the thing I believe I actually moved there to find, was my church.  (When I first started attending this church, I asked in my livejournal for pseudonym suggestions.  My friend L. suggested that I name it St. Withburga's, which immediately seemed to be the right idea.  I can't remember who St. Withburga was at the moment, but I know it would be hard to find an awesomer name, so I'll continue to refer to it that way here.)

I wasn't an Episcopalian when I came to Denver.  I was raised by agnostic hippie parents who have a lot going on spiritually but no use for religion.  I went through a long conversion process in college that culminated with a dramatic, weird Jesus experience when I was living in London my junior year, but I'll leave all that for a later post.  During and after this time, I went to a few different churches, but none of them quite worked out.  Ever since high school, I'd had these vocational thoughts that I tried to ignore, but at this point I was able to acknowledge my longing for some kind of ministry, to minister to other people and let them do the same to me.  I even considered the possibility that I wanted to be ordained, but I had no tradition or denomination to give context to these urges.  I couldn't imagine what ordination would mean, except that my whole family would probably disown me.  I was kind of a mess.

I moved to Denver right after college to join AmeriCorps, working with preschool-age kids who needed teachers.  I lived with two other girls in my program in a big falling-apart Victorian house; the walls of my room were blood-red and the night we moved in, my roommate's doorknob fell off.  I'm pretty sure we had mice.  

After a week or two, I noticed the beautiful Episcopal church about a block away from my house.  All I knew about the Episcopalians was that they seemed to attract female writers.  I knew several of them myself, such as my friend E., on whose advice I'd read and loved Nora Gallagher's memoir about joining the church.  (I can't quite remember the sequence of events here; I'm pretty sure she was the one who recommended this to me, but she should correct me if I'm wrong.  Anyway.)  I also had the impression that Garrison Keillor was an Episcopalian, or at least that he talked about them a lot, which for me is a recommendation of the highest order.

I stopped in for the first time on the feast day of the church's patron saint - let's call it St. Withburga's Day.  I was irritated because the service time was early and I was tired from being with small children all week.  I planned to go back to bed immediately after the service.  The church was very full, and I found a pew in the back, probably scowling unpleasantly.  All I really remember is being amazed by the variety of people there.  Some were your stereotypical wealthy-looking Anglican, but others appeared to be homeless, and some didn't seem quite sure where they were.  I know I must have been one of the latter.  

I wish I could remember my first thoughts on the procession: the acolyte all in white, the priests in their fabulous robes, somebody carrying a big gold cross.  They probably used incense, since it was a feast day.  I don't remember detailed impressions of any of it; I just remember that I absolutely loved it.  I started crying and couldn't stop.  I think I cried during every service, every Sunday for almost two years.

It wasn't one of our regular priests who gave the sermon.  It may have been the retired bishop, but I can't remember that either.  "As Anne Lamott writes," he said at one point, and proceeded to quote a very long passage from her work.  I had read all of Lamott's books about a hundred times; she was a big part of my conversion, such as it was.  I couldn't believe a priest in an actual church was quoting her, since she is often rather vulgar.  I think the passage he read actually had several curse words, but no one seemed offended.  At that exact moment (not just because of Anne Lamott, although I'm sure that was part of it), I realized that things would not continue according to my plans.  I wasn't going to scope out any other churches in Denver, as I had thought.  Instead, I was going to be baptized and confirmed here in this church (this was nowhere CLOSE to my plans.)  I was an Episcopalian, and in that moment, I knew it just as well as I knew I was going home to the hideous house with the red walls after the service.

I did go home to that house, but I didn't go back to sleep.  I lay in bed feeling electrified.  I felt like the Holy Spirit had actually descended upon me in church, and in fact, I still think this may be true, although usually I don't feel comfortable talking openly about nutty religious-fanatic things like the Holy Spirit.  I couldn't stop thinking about the amazing beauty of the church, and the faces of the congregation, how much they loved being there.  

Soon I'll probably write about some of my favorite people from St. W's, how sarcastic and hilarious my friends were, and how that community took the most amazing care of me when I was depressed or horribly anxious or just lonely.  I'll tell you about how they let me be one of those white-robed acolytes and serve the wine at communion and one time even the bread, possibly because they became confused and thought I was someone else, maybe some pious person.  Oh, and also the time when we had to eat all the communion wafers after the Good Friday service and my friend kept shouting "No Jesus for you!" at people who walked in.  Right now, though, I'm just trying to remember how it felt to be in that place for the first time, how I looked at all of them and realized, to my astonishment, that they were my people now, whether they wanted me or not, and how grateful I was when eventually I realized that they did.

We're not worryin' at all

Quite a while ago, my friend R. showed me this hilarious picture from Out in Center Field of Manny Ramirez in front of the terrifying A's Victory Van.  As one of the commenters points out, "It looks like the van is hitting him."  This image apparently lodged in my subconscious, because my first reaction on hearing about the Harden/Gaudin deal was a confused image of the players from Oakland actually driving up to Wrigley Field in the Victory Van.  It's a good thing I'm not in charge of much of anything, especially anything baseball-related.

In other entertaining news, my friend J. informed me that Len and Bob also referred to Mike Fontenot last night as "Mighty Mike."  I fervently hope they will play HERE I COME TO SAVE THE DAY whenever he comes up to bat from now on.  Very fervently.

Jesus-y post coming up soon.

Well, now.

A big day for the Cubs, of course, aside from winning tonight's game against the Reds (more on that shortly), as they picked up Rich Harden and Chad Gaudin from the A's.  Do any of you fans of teams from the AL know anything about Harden?  His stats look great, so I just hope he stays healthy.  I hate to lose Sean Gallagher, though, who I have a terrible soft spot for, partly because of his absurd MLB mugshot (they're all bad, but his is one of the worst).

As for tonight's game, my favorite moment was Mike Fontenot's home run, after which our announcers proudly referred to him as "Little Mike Fontenot."  I'm sure he loves that.

"I don't care what they offer, if they offer anything, I'll sign"

Well, I promised myself when I started this blog that I would not refer to enormous grown men as "adorable," so all I will say is that this article is very endearing: Bond between Cubs' pitchers is strong.  The best part is probably the following, from relief pitcher Scott Eyre: 

"We look out for each other," Eyre said of the pitchers. "Like [Saturday] night, it was a tough loss for [Wood]. You know he doesn't want to go out and walk the first two batters [against the Cardinals]. Sometimes you don't want to talk after a game like that. You send a text message later or knock on his door with two beers in your hand, one for you, one for him. You talk about other stuff to get his mind off that. He did it a lot for me last year."

They send each other text messages and bring each other beers, "one for you, one for him"!  I still promise not to invoke the a-word, but I can see it's going to be harder than I thought.

Introductory things

Hello!  I'm your blog owner.  The sidebar already says some of this, but: I'm a fairly newly-minted Episcopalian (baptized last Easter) who's about to start an M.A. in Pastoral Studies at a Catholic university (I'm not entirely sure how that happened).  I'm also quite fond of baseball.  I've had a livejournal for about a hundred years, but most of the friends I have made there are not particularly interested in either the Cubs or my leftist Jesus-y thoughts.  I thought this blog might be a good place for both, although probably more of the latter.

There's a picture of me that was taken when I was about three years old in which I'm wearing an adult-sized Cubs hat that's tilted over one eye.  I look totally filled with joy over life in general and the Cubs' prospects specifically.  I love this picture because it captures probably the exact last moment I felt that kind of uncomplicated happiness over the Cubs (or, I would guess, life in general).

There have been many years when I haven't really followed, or pretended not to follow, the game.  I know this is typical fair-weather-fan behavior, and I'm not always as devoted or committed as I want to be, but the thing is, I just get too emotionally involved.  It hurts so much when they lose, and I make myself insane.  This year I thought it was safe, but the Cubs went through a bit of a rough spot the past couple weeks - people on the DL, Aramis Ramirez suddenly returning to the Dominican Republic for the birth of his child, and didn't Ryan Theriot have the stomach flu during the Giants series?  I was trying to block that out of my mind.  Anyway, at some point or other in the season I often start to feel, as Anne Lamott wrote, "like the cocky heroine in an ugly hubris drama" involving "an onslaught of thunder and silent screams, with cymbals, fangs...I mean, who needs it?" (I wrote this last week, and I still feel that way, but as of this moment, Rami, Reed Johnson, and Z are all back, we just won our series against the Cardinals and will be sending seven players to the All-Star Game, and everybody seems to be feeling more hopeful.  Fingers crossed, as always.) 

Cliche as it is, though, baseball and religion are pretty strongly linked for me.  So this year I'm trying to hang on through those rough spots, to love the team when it's losing or otherwise unlovable just as much as I do when we're in first place, as we are at the moment, because for some reason God is into that kind of thing.  My other baseball-God connection is this: a while ago my friend R., a Red Sox fan, and I talked about how, in other sports, the most thrilling moments involve lots of running, throwing, punching: in short, exciting physical activity.  But in baseball, about 90% of the most thrilling moments we've seen involved some man staring into the camera for a very long time, then spitting emphatically while another man flashes him incomprehensible signs.  Just like my spiritual life!

Okay, possibly the parallels are not exact.  But in some ways, my spiritual life has been so much like this - for example, most of the important stuff takes place during long stretches of what appears to be nothing.  All those days of reading the Daily Office and trying centering prayer and worrying that nothing is happening, or ever will happen, somehow opens up a space for the real work to go on, and from time to time I realize how much has been going on without my being aware of it.

Well, on the back page of the Chicago Sun-Times on June 21st, there was a delightful picture of Aramis Ramirez being congratulated by his teammates after his game-winning home run against the White Sox.  They were all touching each other in that un-self-conscious baseball-player way, and they looked completely overjoyed, almost like me in that picture when I was a little kid.  My mom, walking by, paused for a long moment to look at this picture.  She shook her head in this really fond way and said, "The boys of summer."  "I love baseball," I said.  Which I do.  So hello again, and thanks for reading!